


First Molt

by SilkyinaBottle



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Coming Out, Gen, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkyinaBottle/pseuds/SilkyinaBottle
Summary: They are born Hubert, Duet, and Llewellyn Duck, but in the end they become so, so much more.





	1. new morning dew

**Author's Note:**

> i'm here to represent these trans ducks baby
> 
> i'm just so excited for the hiatus to end this weekend i had to finish this up. i have two more chapters planned so please stay tuned!!

Dewford Duck honestly considers the first six years of his life to be some kind of awkward introduction period. The prologue to the rest of his story. It was only there to set the scene; it holds no impact on who he is and where he’s at today. It was before he figured out who he was. It was before he was _Dewey_.

Every single second he spent as Duet Duck doesn’t count. It’s not part of the epic tale he’s trying to tell.

It hardly matters, anyways. From what he likes to remember, it all passed in the blink of an eye. There one second, gone the next. He doesn’t need to stay on the subject any longer than that. He’s got bigger things to worry about: daring adventures, feather-ruffling mysteries, sibling squabbles… Yeah, he’s got his hands full. No time to be thinking about the past. Because what’s gone is gone.

But sometimes, it’s hard not to remember.

 

The first time Dewey remembers feeling truly content is the day the three of them discover how to play pretend. It’s like a great big door’s been opened; a door full of possibilities he’s never considered before.

It doesn’t matter who he is in reality, because in their little world of make-believe he can be anything he wants: a space pirate, a vengeful mummy, an aspiring wizard, or even, during one particularly amusing playtime, their Uncle Donald. There are no barriers; no reaches of his imagination he’s not allowed to explore.

It’s great to know he’s not alone, either: Louie plays the captured princess just to sit around and watch their battles, and Huey plays giant dragons and monsters when he’s just about as threatening as a fruit fly. No one’s acting more or less ridiculous than anyone else.

And if he plays the part of a boy a little more (okay, a lot more) than is required, nobody says anything about it.

 

“...And these are pictures from your Grandma Hortense’s wedding!” Donald says, tilting the faded scrapbook to give the triplets a better view. Huey _oohs_ and _aahs_ , and Louie sprawls across Donald’s lap for a better look, but Dewey—actually, Duet at the time—just shifts in his seat atop the couch cushions.

Louie points at one particular photo: a close-up of their grandmother smiling, strings of pearls and gemstone earrings in clear view. “I like her jewelry.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Louie,” Donald coos as the youngest duck rolls right off of his lap, bumping straight into Duet. “I think they’re around in storage somewhere…” Donald’s eyes flicker over to Duet’s face. “Who knows? Maybe someday _you’ll_ get to wear them, Duet.”

He shrugs. “Okay.” He’s not sure what else he’s _supposed_ to say. The jewelry looks nice, and it’s probably ridiculously expensive, but he can’t imagine it on himself. In the picture, Grandma looks refined, elegant, _dainty_. Is that how other people see him? It just doesn’t feel right, like two puzzle pieces someone’s trying to force together.

But then Huey starts rambling on about wedding plans and Louie laughs and Duet decides it might be easier to go along with it, at least for the time being.

 

The triplets all have nightmares at their age. Things wake that wake them up in the middle of the night, at hours they hardly ever name. All kids have nightmares sometimes, Uncle Donald says. But that doesn’t make them any easier to deal with.

Duet knows what Huey and Louie dream about; they’ve mentioned it to him briefly, alluded to their demons as they climbed into his bunk to sleep easier.

Huey dreams of being chased by dragons and goblins and ghosts and all sorts of unspeakable monsters, and running, running, until he trips and skins his hands and knees and the monsters are right at his heels. He always wakes up with a shout, and then it’s straight to Donald’s room. Sometimes he’s ushered back into bed a few minutes later, and other times not.

Louie, on the other hand, dreams of dark places, bumps in the night, scratches on the walls, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness, knowing that no one is coming to help. Duet usually wakes a few minutes after these dreams to the sound of crying, and he listens to Louie sob quietly until he’s sure the younger is asleep again.

But Huey and Louie’s dreams are simple, Duet thinks. Or at least, more simple than his. At least their dreams make _sense._ Duet’s don’t, and that’s maybe the most terrifying thing of all.

If Huey’s dreams are more of a vision, and Louie’s dreams are more of a sound, then Duet’s are more of a feeling. Something pressing against his skin, from the inside out, growing pains, fabric brushing against his knees, his knees shaking, feeling like he’s about to burst…

...He always wakes up gently, but in a cold sweat, and decides it’s not a big enough deal to bring up to anybody ever.

 

There’s a big, antique bottle of perfume sitting on the nightstand, right next to Duet’s bed. He’s pretty sure it belonged to Grandma Hortense, just like the jewelry. It’s made of green glass with an intricately beaded gold cap. The little gold beads extend down the bottle, on all sides, like a thousand golden vines that might just strangle Duet in his sleep, and then turns into a sickeningly lovely floral pattern.

He knows this because it’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up, and the last thing he sees when he goes to sleep. He doesn’t even understand why it’s there. He’s never even used it! But Donald keeps on saying _someday_ , someday when he’s old enough, someday when he wants to, someday when they have to go to a big event that’s worth wearing perfume for, someday someday _someday_ …

But _today_ he grows sick of it, and today he picks it up by its bottleneck and throws it onto the ground. It shatters into an uncountable number of pieces, and he feels immensely relieved for reasons he can’t explain.

...He feels a lot worse when Huey notices the smell, but when he claims it was an accident, Huey’s immediately eager to earn his Helping Hand badge, and it seems like Donald won’t hear a single word about this incident.

But of course, he does, and two weeks later there is another, much more modern bottle of perfume sitting on his nightstand. Duet has the immediate urge to smash it, of course, but then Donald mentions a big family reunion next weekend and something about it being the perfect opportunity for her to try it. She bunches her shoulders up and mumbles an affirmation, already submitting herself to whatever frou-frou dress Donald is gonna make her wear.

One week later, and she’s cooped up in the gazebo in the middle of great-aunt Lulubelle’s garden, and he is indeed wearing the exact frou-frou dress of his nightmares. It makes him look like Cinderella on a casual day… after she becomes a princess, of course. He’s not sure if being Cinderella back when she was poor would be much better, though. At least he’d feel less fancy. Because clearly that’s what’s bothering him about this.

He’s only been there for about five minutes when Huey shows up and sits down next to him. He seems more interested in reading the book he brought with him than talking much to any of their family members. Donald said a few months ago that he was “advanced for his age,” and something about remembering that makes Duet even angrier at him than he already is.

“You don’t feel like talking to anyone either, huh?” Huey asks him, just barely glancing up from his book, and Duet huffs in response.

“Yeah, especially not you.”

There’s a pause, and then Duet hears (and only hears, because he is very stubbornly _not_ looking at his brother) Huey set down his book in his lap. “...Are you mad at me?”

“A little,” he admits, not like it’s a big deal. Except it kind of is, and he’s not even sure why.

“For what? What did I do?” Huey sounds equal parts demanding and genuinely curious.

Duet crosses his arms a little tighter and stares down at his web feet, all dressed up in girly little mary-janes. “You told Uncle Donald about the perfume.”

Another pause. “Junior Woodchucks are supposed to be honest. I only did what was right.”

“This isn’t about all of your dumb Junior Woodchucks junk!” he cries, a little louder than he means to. “I thought you wouldn’t tell anyone!”

There’s not a pause before Huey’s feet hit the ground this time. “Well, you thought wrong. And by the way, they don’t give out Junior Woodchucks badges for bad attitudes. Just so you know.”

He listens to Huey walk away for one, two, three beats before shouting, “Who cares?!” and curling himself up into a frilly little ball. He’s not sure if the outburst was directed at Huey or himself, but in the end it doesn’t matter, because no one responds, and no one comes to check on him.

 

The triplets are six when they first discover video games, and from there Louie’s participation in pretend sessions becomes less frequent.

At first, Duet feels like he’s losing something precious. “You _said_ you’d be Tinkerbell,” he complains, climbing up the side of the couch and plopping himself down beside Louie, who’s got a controller in hand. “You’re a liar.”

Louie just shrugs. “Nothing wrong with that.”

It seems Duet will have to take a more direct approach. “I’m gonna tell Uncle Donald.”

“No you’re not,” the youngest quickly retorts, retrieving a second controller from (seemingly) nowhere. “Not if I let you be player two.”

Duet glances at the controller being presented to him, and he’s about to say no, until he glances up at the screen and sees the character waiting for him: a brawny-looking duck who looks ready to throw down at a moment’s notice. “Oh, I like him,” he says, and Louie effortlessly guides the controller into his hands with a smug look.

“I thought you might.”

 

The desire for change doesn’t come around until later, and as soon as it does, Duet is guarding it like a pirate around his prized treasure chest. It quickly becomes his best kept secret; something he keeps under lock and key, because… well, just because. He’s not sure why, and at the tender age of six, that’s plenty reason enough.

But if you really had to ask him to reason it out… Well, reasoning isn’t his strong suit, but here’s the way he sees it. There’s a problem, and he’s not sure what it is, but no one can see it but him, which means it must be _his_ fault, somehow. And if it’s his fault, that means he could get in trouble, and getting in trouble is always the worst.

This means he has to lie about everything being okay when people ask (and Donald asks a _lot_ ). But unfortunately for Duet, lying isn’t his strong suit. It’s Louie’s.

He’s about a week into his dilemma when Louie approaches, all genuine curiosity. No deviance. Not yet. “So what’s your problem?”

Duet flinches, which basically gives him away right off the bat. “Wh-what problem? Does it look like I have a problem?” Because that doesn’t sound suspicious at all.

Louie shrugs. “Yeah, kinda.” Then, pointing at Duet as if to demonstrate, “You keep holding your shoulders all high up, like you’re embarrassed, and you shift around all the time and stuff. You look nervous a lot.”

Duet crosses his arms firmly across his chest and turns away, trying to give off an air of stubbornness. Louie’s usually too lazy to fish for answers. “Not telling.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need any help.” Or, more accurately, he doesn’t know what _kind_ of help he needs. That’s what he’s still trying to figure out.

“Yeah-huh, you do.” It’s a quick counter, probably said just for the sake of arguing, but it’s enough to set Duet off.

“Well, if I did need help, I wouldn’t take it from some dumb _boy_ like you!” he shouts, whirling around to face Louie again. He doesn’t mean what he’s saying, he knows he’s just taking it out on the youngest, but Louie has no idea.

Duet tries not to feel bad about the crying, but he feels worse about what Louie says before running off in tears. “Fine! I don’t care about stupid _girls_ anyways!”

Donald’s definitely going to be hearing about this later. So much for staying out of trouble.

 

He first hears the word “transgender” from a random passerby on the street. She’s a cranky, older lady, squawking loudly and angrily, and that’s really the only word Duet picks up from her before Donald quickly guides the three of them away. Duet isn’t sure what she was going on about, but he feels the inexplicable urge to fight her regardless.

Huey asks a couple of nosy questions, Donald swiftly changes the subject, Louie asks if they can stop for candy on the way home, and the incident is more or less forgotten. But the word “transgender” sticks with Duet, and he’s not sure why.

So of course, a couple weeks later, he asks Huey, because that just seems like the natural thing to do. Huey is the oldest, and he’s usually the one who knows stuff about things, or at least knows where you can find stuff about the thing you want to know about. So he’ll probably be able to help, Duet reasons. Besides, he was asking all of those questions the day it happened, right? So maybe he looked some stuff up.

And sure enough, as soon as he asks, Huey lowers the book he’s holding and looks at him quizzically. “Transgender? Yeah, I know what that means. That weird lady we ran into on the street a while ago was screaming about it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Duet says. “I just remembered it,” and he definitely hasn’t been pondering on it for weeks, “that’s why I asked.”

“Well,” Huey starts, setting his book to the side, and Duet knows he’s in for some kind of long-winded explanation, “it’s _basically_ when someone’s sex and gender aren’t the same, and they work to make them line up in a way that makes them comfortable.”

“...Okay, in English?”

Huey lets out a long sigh. “Okay, so… example. It’s like if someone is born, and the doctor says that the baby’s a girl, but as the baby grows up, he realizes he’s actually a boy in his heart.”

“...Oh. Okay.” That sounds… familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. But also very, very _comfortably_ familiar, like a warm, fuzzy sweater that fits Duet perfectly. It’s a word he’s never had to describe a feeling he’s _always_ had, for as long as he could remember.

Huey returns to his book after that, seemingly done with the conversation and exasperated with Duet’s antics, and Duet hurries outside, where he knows he can play pretend with himself.

 

Inevitably, he decides to take the big gamble less than a week later. He’s never been one to think through his decisions too thoroughly. Besides, Uncle Donald has seen a ton (and he means, like, a _ton)_ of misfortune during his life. Surely this will mean little in comparison to all of that.

So one morning, fifteen minutes after waking up, he charges into Donald’s room, spots him hunched over his desk, working on something probably important, and announces, “I’m a boy,” before he can even react to the intrusion. As soon as he says it, it’s like a dam’s been opened, and he tells Donald everything. He hadn’t realized just how awful he’d been feeling until now. It’s like he’d been rotting away from the inside out, fighting with what he knew just because he didn’t know how to express it. But no more. He’s done with that.

He tells Donald how his heart squeezes every time he hears the wrong pronouns, how he hasn’t played a girl in a game of pretend in months, how he hates that dress that they bought him for that upcoming dinner at Goofy’s and he’s really sorry but they should probably return it. ...Okay, he’s definitely not sorry, and they should absolutely return it.

Donald nods in understanding the whole while, and at first Duet’s just worried he’s playing along. Maybe he’s just humoring him for now; waiting until he grows out of it.

But the next day, Donald arrives home with a big stack of books from the library and three shopping bags filled with brand-new clothes, and Duet realizes she shouldn’t have doubted him for a second.

 

For Duet, coming out was inevitable as soon as he realized what the problem was, but at the same time, it feels like a huge weight off of his shoulders. He can genuinely smile around his family for the first time in a long while. It feels like he’s throwing away some kind of mask he was wearing. Maybe not a “happy” mask, because it’s no secret he was acting like a huge jerk for a while there. No, he knows the mask he’s throwing away: it’s the “girl” mask, and he’s glad to see it go.

His siblings’ first reactions were nothing of note, really. Huey blinked and went, “Oh! Wait, is that why you asked about it the other day?” while Louie just shrugged and said, “Yeah, I figured it was something like that.” (Duet seriously doubts that, by the way. Louie always likes to pretend to be smart.)

But it isn’t long until Huey asks about names, because boy, does he ever love to ask questions. And Duet has to admit… he hasn’t thought about it. Like, at all. He was a little too caught up in the totally _sick_ and _awesome_ realization that he was a boy to think about it much further than that.

So, of course, Huey sits him down on the couch and rattles off different names for a good forty-five minutes until they finally settle on Dewford. “You guys can call me Dewey!” he decides. “There, we all match now. See?”

Huey pouts a little, his eyes still trained on the dusty book of baby names he has open in his lap. “Aw, I really liked Deuteronomy, though…” He sits up a little. “Not that you have to use it! It’s your choice.”

“Eh, Deuteronomy is too long. I mean, I guess I like how it’s kinda like my old name," and his mom gave him that name, so no matter how much he hates it, it's still kind of important to him, "but...”

“Who says you have to use one?” Both of them peer over the back of the couch to see Louie, walking by and opening a can of soda. “You have to choose a middle name too, right? Unless you think ‘Daffodil’ sounds like a boy’s name.”

Huey shoots a glare. “Louie…”

“No, no, he’s got a point…” Duet—actually, Dewey now—thinks on it for only a moment. “Deuteronomy can work as a middle name. Yeah!” He pulls himself up to stand on the couch cushions and raises a fist in the air, finally feeling like the mighty warrior he’s played in pretend games for years. “I’ll be Dewford Deuteronomy Duck!”

Huey raises a fist in the air too, but doesn’t dare stand up on the cushions, and Louie’s clapping is a little slow, but Dewey knows that’s normal for both of them. They aren’t treating him any differently than before, and in some ways, that’s the truest form of acceptance.

...He wonders if mom would be proud of him now. He bets she would be.

 

Dewey’s never been much for writing, really. That’s more of Huey’s schtick. He tried keeping a diary once, back when he was Duet and everything felt decidedly not right, but that was more because he was expected to than out of an actual desire to write.

So when Donald suggests he start keeping a journal on their family computer, Dewey is reluctant, to say the least (although “journal” feels a bit more comfortable than “diary”). But then he says something about it being good to show to Dewey’s therapists, and that’s when Dewey realizes he’ll just get to write about how much of a _boy_ he is.

From there, he starts writing in it daily… for about five days. What can he say? He’s always had a short attention span. But he at least touches on it once a week, whenever Uncle Donald reminds him to. Something about writing about _being_ a boy and why he _knows_ he’s one makes his heart feel a little fuller.

 

The moment he finds out Scrooge McDuck— _b_ _illionaire_ Scrooge McDuck—is his great-uncle, he feels a sharp spike of excitement, and then a touch of dread. A touch of dread that slowly builds over the course of the next two days.

After all, Uncle Scrooge is his family. And he’s been a part of his family this whole time. And honestly… he’s kind of old. Sure, Dewey’s been met with open arms by the majority of his friends and family, but there’s always been the occasional jerk; usually someone who was a little too focused on the “good old, simple days”.

Then again, Scrooge was a seasoned adventurer! Surely he’d met all sorts of people on his travels across the globe, and that could totally include people like Dewey. He’s probably a bit more connected to the current times than any _regular_ stuffy old guy… right?

But as Scrooge forgets his name, casts him aside, and underestimates him more times than he can count, Dewey becomes more and more unsure. Maybe his worst fears were right. Maybe, at the first opportunity he gets, as soon as they’re alone, Scrooge will address him by his old name and insist that he’s right, just like he _always does…_

...And then Dewey yanks a legendary jewel out of its stone hand prison, accidentally blows up his childhood home, and consequently moves in with his great-uncle. After that, Scrooge warms up to him considerably, and Dewey’s worries wash away like the water from the first of many near-miss death traps.

 

There’s a big, scuffed-up sword that sits on the mantle of one of Scrooge’s twelve fireplaces in McDuck Manor (on top of fireplace number seven, to be specific). It’s looked like it’s seen better days, and maybe that’s what interests Dewey in it. That sword has been through adventure, peril, absolute _danger._ It’s exactly the kind of sword five-year-old him would have loved to have in his arsenal. The exact kind of sword that would have made him feel like the cool, dashing hero he was.

And it’s the exact kind of sword that could make him feel that way today, right now.

That being said, he climbs up the fireplace, retrieves the sword without incident, takes out an expensive vase with it, and immediately gets caught by Mrs. Beakley. You know how it goes.

He doesn’t really think he’s done anything too bad, but he gets dragged to Uncle Scrooge’s office regardless. Scrooge doesn’t look all too pleased to see him.

“Now, I don’t wanna know the story behind this, boy,” he says to Dewey, massaging his forehead. “I’m sure I can put that together meself. What I want to know is _why?_ Why did you think this was a good idea? That thing is nearly twice your size! Ya could have killed yourself!”

Dewey stares down at his webbed feet and shrugs, keeping his posture tight. Honestly, he doesn’t plan on telling Scrooge all the details. They’ve come a long way since day one, sure, but after thinking things through, he’s realized there’s a pretty big chance Scrooge doesn’t know he’s trans at all. And if he doesn’t… well, Dewey does not plan on clueing him in. “I don’t know. It was cool. I wanted to use it.”

“Now, that can’t be all.” He sits himself back down in his desk chair and gives Dewey a pointed look. “Tell me just _why_ you wanted to use it.”

Dewey tilts his head back and groans. “What’s with you and all the whys today?! Maybe I just like cool swords!”

“Oh, you definitely do, lad. But if that were all, ya wouldn’t have hesitated to let me know from the moment you walked in the room.”

...Ugh. He got him. “Fine. Whatever.” He crosses his arms across his chest, drawing further into himself. “I just thought it might help me feel more… manly.” The last word is mumbled, at best, in the hopes that Scrooge won’t hear.

But unfortunately, it seems he’s heard him loud and clear. “Hm. Well, there are plenty of other ways we can take care of that.” He pulls himself back up from his chair and heads towards the phone. “Ways that are less likely to get me in trouble with your uncle.”

Dewey sits up straighter, the tension quickly releasing from his body. “What? Wait, so does that mean…”

“I knew?” Scrooge finishes. “Well, not at first. Donald was awfully tight-lipped about it. Not that I blame him, of course! In the end, I just put it together on me own.” He glances over his shoulder and throws Dewey a grin as he picks up the phone. “I _am_ smarter than the smarties, after all. Now, would ya like to learn how to blacksmith in Germany or go bouldering in Thailand?”

In the end, Dewey chooses to go rock climbing, of course. He’s had enough of swords for today.


	2. autumn leaves, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up guys i love louie so much that one chapter turned into two
> 
> so since louie's part of the fic mostly takes place during canon, and season 2 is the season of the evil triplet, i'm splitting this chapter up. so you get this part now, and the second part after season 2 is over!!
> 
> also, i got a lot of requests for certain headcanons to put in the fic, and i want to make it very clear: _i've already got a clear picture of what i'm doing with each triplet_. and they don't necessarily align with popular headcanons. it's not that i don't like those! this is just the impression i got when i watched the show before i saw other people's opinions, and i wanted to throw my own take out there!!
> 
> hope you guys enjoy this! i got so much lovely feedback last time, and i honestly wasn't expecting it for a niche trans ducks fic. ;u;

Even when Louie’s life is spiraling rapidly out of control, there’s always a way to reign it back in. Adventure is cool and all, but sometimes (okay, most of the time) staying in and watching TV is easier. It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. She likes comfortable.

Yes, “she”. Not that anyone’s using that pronoun out loud, or that Louie’s even purposefully choosing to use it in her head at all, but… It’s like a reflex. It slipped into her head once, and from there it was nearly impossible to stop. She doesn’t even know why.

...That’s a lie, of course. She’s gotten really good at lying over the years. To her friends, to her family, and even to herself. So she knows why it feels right. But when confusion turned to questioning and questioning turned to  _ knowing…  _ after that, knowing turned into straight-up denial. Because no matter how comfortable the  _ idea  _ might make her feel, status quo is the most comfortable thing of all.

At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. But maybe that’s a lie, too.

 

Okay, she’s lying at least a little, because when her life’s peaceful status quo first gets thrown out the window, she doesn’t mind at all.

But this is  _ different,  _ she tells herself. She gets to be rich now. She can live off of Uncle Scrooge’s riches for as long as she pleases. Everything’s smooth sailing from now on. Easy living and all that!

(Even if she wanted to get a new haircut, even if she wanted to throw out her old clothes and get herself a whole new wardrobe, even if she wanted to adorn herself with jewels and perfume like those old pictures of Grandma Hortense, even if she wanted to go on hormones or go to therapy like Dewey, _even_ _if if if if if—)_

“Boy, must ya really leave these soda cans all over the house?” Scrooge chides, and the words feel like ice on her skin.

“Isn’t that what the help is for?” she asks, giving Scrooge an innocent look. It’s that same look she’s been giving Uncle Donald and her older brothers for years. That same look that’s gotten her out of trouble time and time again.

But Scrooge doesn’t seem convinced. He narrows his eyes at Louie and presses his beak into a tight line. “Try saying that in front of Mrs. Beakley and see how ‘helpful’ she is then.” He leaves without another word, and it is then Louie realizes her usual tricks won’t work on Scrooge.

The thought sends a jolt of panic through her body. Her lies are all she has to hide behind. She’s never needed anything else.

 

“Louie!” It’s a week after the triplet’s disastrous first meeting with the Beagle Boys when Webby ambushes her in the middle of breakfast. (...Okay, it’s one in the afternoon, but she’s having waffles, so it’s still breakfast!) She slams her hands down on the table and stands on her tiptoes so she can look her right in the eyes. “What are normal girls like?”

“What?” she blurts out, nearly choking on her food in the process. And maybe it’s a stupid answer, but what she says next is, “How would I know?”

Webby furrows her brow a little, as if this is some kind of test. “Because you’ve been around normal girls before? At school and stuff!”

“So? Huey and Dewey have too!” Maybe she’s being a  _ touch  _ defensive, but Webby will probably just think she doesn’t want to be bothered. Because she usually doesn’t, and this is no exception.

“Yeah, but Huey seems more like the reading and studying type than the socializing type, and I’m not sure Dewey knows how to talk to girls who aren’t me. Oh, but don’t tell him I said that!”

Louie hums, considering. It’s a fair assessment. Both of her brothers are social disasters in their own unique ways. And… looking at Webby’s hopeful, expectant face, she realizes this is a rare opportunity. Someone wants  _ her  _ to teach them how to be a girl. It sort of… Well, it’s…

It makes her feel  _ useful. _

She pushes her waffle aside and hops out of her chair. “Alright, I see where you’re going with this.” She takes Webby under her arm and her wing. “Let me show you the ropes.”

 

Something about Lena is mystical.

Not that Louie  _ likes  _ her or anything—she’s cute, but not for her, no thank you—but she can’t say she doesn’t admire her. (Well, okay, she  _ could,  _ but only because she’s a particularly skilled liar.)

Maybe it’s her confidence. She seems to walk around like she doesn’t care who judges her, what anyone says, what anyone thinks… It’s like the two of them are polar opposites. Because no matter how many lies she tells, no matter how much of a facade she builds around herself, Louie can’t get herself to stop  _ caring. _

And she sees her and Webby, off on their little adventures together or having sleepovers… They’re  _ close,  _ and Louie isn’t dumb. She knows why it’s easier for Webby to connect with her than with the triplets. And the more she watches them, the more bitter she finds herself becoming. The more she wishes she could be a  _ part  _ of it. It’s plain old envy and she knows it. There’s a reason she’s the green one.

But more than that, she’s a people person. She knows how to worm her way into a friend group if she has to. So she organizes a movie night at the mansion, and oh-so-subtly suggests Webby invite Lena over.

It doesn’t take long for her pick something out. Dewey likes action, Huey likes sci-fi, Lena seems like she’d be into horror, and Webby has no idea what her preferences are, making her a true wild card. And since alien flicks are off-limits after last time, Louie chooses a B movie about robots taking over the earth. Because movie nights are always the best when you can all make fun of a subpar film together.

Huey puts Dewey in charge of getting the viewing room ready and appoints himself to snack duty (“I’m not letting either of you steal any of my candy while my back is turned this time!” he had said), so that just leaves Louie and Webby to invite their guest in.

All according to plan.

“So this is the foyer,” Webby says, leading Lena around the mansion while Louie lags behind a little. “The stairs up there go to the bedrooms, and the kitchen is over there, and past that is the dining hall… Oh, and Scrooge’s office is—”

“Booooring!” Louie cries, taking hold of Lena’s sleeve and pulling her down the hallway. If she wants to be part of the group, she’s just going to have to squirrel her way in. “Let me show you where the  _ real  _ party is.”

She’s only a few steps closer to the room with the biggest TV (where they’ll be having their movie night,  _ of course) _ , when Lena pulls back. “Uh, sure,” she says, giving Louie a cautious look. “But, you know… I wouldn’t  _ totally  _ mind getting a tour of the mansion first.” Her gaze slides back over to Webby’s eager face.

“ _ Ha! _ ” she cries, pumping her fist and jumping a foot up in the air. “I  _ knew  _ it!” She latches herself back onto Lena and starts barreling back towards the foyer, leaving Louie behind without a second thought.

It’s fine. Webby probably figured she wouldn’t care, since she already lives here. That she would stay comfortably neutral, as always. That she could just go get the movie ready with her brothers. That she didn’t want to be involved in their  _ girl stuff,  _ anyways.

She was wrong, but it’s fine. It’s really just fine.

 

The first time she reconsiders her life strategy (pretend, pretend, pretend until it feels real, and then sit back and coast) is the day they visit Uncle Gladstone.

Well, maybe that isn’t quite true. She’s been questioning the second half of that since she spent a day chasing down Scrooge’s decoy number one dime. But she’s never questioned that first part until now.

She tells herself that going to see him will be a wake-up call, a day to realign herself. After all, she’s always wanted to be like him! Rich, cool, impossibly lucky, rich…

So when he takes her under her wing, she doesn’t complain. In fact, she encourages it. And when he makes Uncle Donald come along, well, she complains a little, but manages to shrug it off. And when he gets her a nice suit for free, and she looks just like him, like she’s always wanted to… she feels sick, but she pushes it back.

(There’s just something about the way it hugs her, restrictively, like a giant snake going in for the kill. It feels like it’s accentuating something she’s  _ not.  _ Something she can’t be, no matter how long she lets Uncle Gladstone coach her.)

Still, the casino is fun, and the longer she’s around Uncle Gladstone, the more she feels she could have every material thing she’s ever wanted.

But then he pushes her aside, and she realizes maybe what she  _ really  _ wants is something less tangible.

She falls asleep once they get to the temple (she’s pretty sure they all do, actually), emotionally exhausted and full from the Buffet of Many Lands. When she finally wakes up, she’s mid-air, being held by a familiar pair of feathery arms. “Unca Donald…?” she mumbles, her sleepy state bringing her back to the old childhood pronunciation.

She feels herself shift a bit as Donald readjusts his grip. “I’m just getting you to bed. We’ve all had a long day.”

“Okay.” Sweet, she doesn’t have to walk. She’s quiet for a moment more before her next words spill lazily out of her beak. “You know you’re my favorite dad, right?”

Donald’s hold on her tightens as he comes to a halt. She doesn’t blame him. The word “dad” is all but forbidden at their house after the last time their father visited, leaving Huey with a bruised beak, Dewey with a bruised ego, and Louie with a broken heart. But it’s the truth, and it’s the reason Donald could never qualify for the “coolest uncle,” even if he tried. Because he’s something else entirely.

But after a moment, Louie feels him let out a long sigh, and he begins to move forward again. “Yep, I do. And you’re my favorite son. Well, one of them.”

As the bobbing of Donald’s footsteps gently lulls her back to sleep, she hardly notices as she whispers, “Your favorite  _ daughter. _ ”

She’ll only regret it later.

 

It doesn’t take her long to decide she likes Ithaquack. She gets free grapes, a new outfit, and Uncle Donald’s friend seems pretty alright.

And maybe her tunic isn’t a  _ dress,  _ really, but she can pretend. Pretending is just a form of lying, after all. A form of lying she learned when she was three, playing the princess in the tower while Huey and Dewey tried to fight each other with wooden spoons. At least until she discovered video games and found a way to pretend that was a little more convincing and required a little less effort.

It’s breezy like a dress. It’s the closest thing to a dress she’ll ever be able to wear without getting questions she might not be able to talk her way out of. Coupled with her laurel crown, she’s feeling pretty good about herself.

At least until Storkules calls her “Llewelyn,” and she feels a stab of pain in her chest. “Please do not say my real name out loud,” she begs, but she has the feeling he’ll do it again anyways. It’s not that he means any harm, really, he’s just… really stupid.

She gets it. It means “lion” and it’s supposed to be tough and cool and  _ whatever,  _ but everytime she hears it she feels like she’s been cheated out of something. Llewelyn. Lou-Ellen. Two names she could have had instead, mashed up into one wrong name that just ends up being a huge slap in the face.

But it’s her name, the name her mother gave her, so she’s stuck with it. Even if other people aren’t stuck with theirs.

 

Only Child Day is a total bust this year, so Dewey decides to cross it off the calendar for good. Huey is very upset to find that Dewey has drawn on his tablet  _ again,  _ in permanent marker, but Louie pools some money from her Louie’s Kids funds and orders him a new one out of the kindness of her heart.

This ends with the three of them all on Huey’s bed, crowded around the laptop, trying to find something to watch all together. Louie doesn’t care too much—whatever it is, she’ll probably fall asleep in the middle of it—but Huey and Dewey seem very set on their personal choices.

“And not only that, but Darkwing Duck has very many educational aspects!” Huey is arguing, gesticulating in small, sharp motions. “There’s a lot we can learn about filmmaking conditions of the 90s, not to mention proper vigilantism!”

Dewey rolls his eyes, but Louie catches the barest hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, because  _ those  _ are the reasons I’d want to watch a superhero show.”

“Wha—they’re  _ good reasons!”  _ Huey squawks.

“We could learn just as much from musical theatre! Dance steps, music theory… how to attract a life full of excitement and adventure just by singing about it!”

“I’m pretty sure we already have a life full of excitement and adventure,” Huey points out.

“Yeah,” Louie agrees, with a swift roll of her eyes, “and we didn’t have to sing for it, thankfully.”

“But we could!” Dewey’s arms are waving all about as he gestures towards the screen. “And besides, think about how rare professional recordings of Broadway shows are! We should appreciate them as much as we can!”

“Geez, and you call  _ Huey  _ a nerd,” she mutters.

“So do you!”

“Well, now I’m going to be calling  _ both  _ of you nerds,” she decides, which earns a groan from them both. She smiles, wicked on the surface but full of fondness deep down.

She feels… comfortable like this. And not just because she’s lying in the middle of Huey’s bed, surrounded by an exosuit of pillows she’s created by taking pillows from  _ all  _ of their beds. Spending time with them like this is  _ emotionally  _ comfortable too. Sometimes she even thinks she could… be honest with them.

It feels disgusting. She tries her best to swallow it.

It’s not that they wouldn’t accept her. That isn’t even a question. Dewey has been out for years, but even without that their support wouldn’t have been a question. They’re her  _ brothers.  _ Not only that, but they’re triplets. They were born together, and they’ll stick together for the rest of their lives. One revelation wouldn’t change that. And yet she can’t bring herself to force the words out of her mouth. She doesn’t even know how to broach such a subject.

Dewey jumps headlong into this stuff. Keeping secrets isn’t in his nature. But it’s all Louie knows how to do.

As they finally pick something to watch and settle in, she doesn’t notice Dewey trembling, ready to burst.

 

“How do you know this is mom’s?” Huey is shouting, his shrill voice reaching Louie easily, but the words still don’t quite register.

“I’ve, uh… kind of been researching her on my own. A little! I mean, I just searched a forbidden library, crashed the Sunchaser, talked to the goddess Selene… Okay… You know, hearing it out loud, it comes off  _ way  _ worse than it sounded in my brain.” She knows they’re in danger, of course. She can hear the demon dog slamming against the door, can feel its weight shake the room with each impact, but her heart seems to be pounding right in time with it.

“How could you keep this from us?!” Her eyes are easily drawn to the light of the torch Huey had haphazardly shoved into her hands just a moment before. It was unlike him to be so careless with something dangerous like an open flame, but it would have been even more unlike him to leave the door completely unguarded. He was a protector at heart. Just like Dewey was always the one to take charge, coming up with a new games or ridiculous schemes that failed more often than they succeeded.

“I was trying to protect you from a potentially devastating revelation.” So where does that put her? What does she do? What  _ can  _ she do? Even now, when her brothers are fighting, all she can do is sit here in silence and stare at this  _ stupid light— _

“Or you just kept it to yourself so you could feel special. Classic Dewey! She’s our  _ mom! _ ” This time Huey’s words definitely reach her, and they hit her so hard she shudders. What would mom do? She wishes she knew. She wishes she had gotten to spend just a moment with her, wishes she had gotten an opportunity to learn from her, wishes she had a girl in her life… There’s so much she wishes.

“Okay, it’s just… first I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to get hurt. Then I  _ couldn’t _ tell you because I found out all this stuff and I didn’t want you to hurt me! I’m sorry, okay?!” Wordlessly, she sets aside the torch and all but dives for the first item of mom’s she can reach: her jacket.

“You’re only sorry because you got caught!” She holds it close, blinking back tears. She hardly even notices her brothers’ argument has come to a halt.

She doesn’t come back to reality until she hears her name come out of Dewey’s mouth. “Louie…? You okay?”

She’s not. Surely he knows that. So instead of answering his question, she tells him exactly what he needs to hear. “You kept a secret about mom. That is not okay.” Because she knows her brothers, and she can read them better than she can read anyone. Dewey isn’t as sure of himself as he’d like them to think. And someone needs to show him that in trying not to hurt them, he’s actually hurt them more than he could imagine.

And then the door erupts, throwing chunks of wood and tiny splinters all across the stonewrought walls and floor.

 

Suffice to say, Dewey didn’t keep secrets after that. She knew he wouldn’t.

Together they find the sketch of the Spear of Selene and team up with Webby. Then Launchpad screws up for what might be the last time and Louie has a panic attack. At least, that’s what Huey seems to think it is.

They discuss it in hushed whispers on their designated side of the Sunchaser. “I am  _ not  _ having a panic attack,” she argues, in the middle of untangling herself from the mess of seatbelts she’d strapped herself up with. “I don’t  _ do  _ panic attacks, Hubert.”

“Alright, but theoretically, if you did, it would look a lot like this.” His fingers grip at the antenna of the walkie talkie he’s holding incessantly. He doesn’t dare turn it on, of course. This is a private conversation, one that Dewey and Webby will not be privy to. After all the secret-keeping they’ve been doing, Louie thinks that’s about fair.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she mutters, her voice tense. “I am cool and collected all the time.” She finally rips the seatbelt off of herself, and nearly shrieks as the leftover force of her action sends her forward. She clings desperately to the armrests of her chair and manages to keep herself in place, but she’s breathing rapidly.

She feels Huey’s hand move over hers. “Shortness of breath, clamminess,” she realizes dimly that Huey is actually checking her pulse, “accelerated heart rate, a feeling of terror or dread… You’ve got the symptoms down pat.”

“I’m not feeling any terror! ... _ Or  _ dread,” she quickly adds when she sees Huey opening his beak. “And if I was that would have been  _ very  _ unhelpful.”

“I’m only giving you the facts,” he says simply. “I have anxiety. And so does Uncle Donald. It probably runs in our family!” His hand closes over Louie’s protectively. “You’re not the only one.”

“Yeah, well, you at least  _ know  _ how to deal with yours. You didn’t freak out right in the middle of executing a plan that everyone trusted you to take care of.” He didn’t mess up the  _ one  _ thing he was good at. Because Huey’s good at everything, and he has a whole slew of Junior Woodchucks badges to prove that.

Huey sighs and stares straight ahead, his grip on Louie’s hand tightening. “Not yet.”

 

So Scrooge tells them the truth about their mom, and Louie doesn’t do anything. She goes home (to their houseboat, where they  _ belonged,  _ and they should have stayed the whole time) with tears in her eyes, trying to remember a time when things were better. She can’t.

So Uncle Donald tells them they’re moving to Cape Suzette, and she doesn’t do anything. She feels a strange sense of apathy washing over her, especially as she browses through maps and tourist sites online, but she doesn't dare object. Especially when Dewey seems so excited about the whole ordeal. She’s probably just upset about the whole Scrooge thing. They all are. She shouldn’t let her feelings get in the way of this.

So Launchpad and Webby throw them a goodbye dinner, and she doesn’t do anything. It’s obviously some sort of trap to get them to bond as a family and come running back to Scrooge—yeah, she’s not blind, and the two of them are painfully easy to read—but there’s a tiny part of her that  _ wants  _ that sense of normalcy again. So she ignores her birth name on the invite and deals with the awful food, hoping they won’t let her down. They don’t, because the two of them are the biggest saps she knows.

So everyone’s shadows spring to life, and she doesn’t do anything. She’s been adventuring with Uncle Scrooge for months at this point and she feels like she hasn’t learned a single thing. She’s just not meant for this kind of stuff. It’s for Dewey, who leaps into danger without a second thought and always comes out alright, or Huey, who absorbs information like a sponge and writes down every ancient artifact and terrifying monster down in his stupid book. Even  _ Uncle Donald  _ is better suited to this stuff than her. All she can do is blindly follow her brothers into the fray, helpless to stop the oncoming apocalypse.

So they manage to fight their way into the money bin to take down Magica, and Louie doesn’t do anything. Sure, she manages to distract Magica for a second by rattling off a story about some fake curse, but compare that to Webby, who actually had a fighting chance against her, or Dewey, who managed to nab the dime and trick her into setting Scrooge free. All she did was sit there and watch things play out, predicting everyone’s moves one by one.

So her family saves the world, and she doesn’t do anything. And the more she thinks about it, the more unsure she is that she could have done anything at all.

 

_ “You saw the angles, didn’t you?” _

She can’t stop thinking about it.

Of course she has. She always has. All those times she stood by the sidelines, watching the battles because she just _ knew _ the enemy was no match for them, or the times she talked one of her brothers out of a bad idea because she could already see the myriad of ways it could go wrong, or even the time she ordered for someone at a food place without them even having to tell her what they wanted.

She sees them  _ everywhere,  _ in everybody else’s lives.

And mom did too. And maybe Scrooge doesn’t know it, but that means  _ everything  _ to her. To know she was even a little bit like her, to know she could be walking in her footsteps right now…

It’s  _ exhilarating.  _ She scribbles out a sign on the first piece of paper she can find and slaps it on their bedroom door.  _ “Louie Inc.,”  _ it reads. “ _ Adventure is our business.™” _

Maybe it’s time she started looking at the angles in her own life, too.


End file.
